


No Pets Allowed

by TerenceFletcher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Dean/Cas Tropefest 5k Mid-Winter Challenge, Fluff and Humor, Love at First Sight, M/M, Talking Animals, implied law violation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 22:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14199108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher
Summary: …in which Sam owns a dog, Dean fails miserably, and Castiel risks his career.





	No Pets Allowed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mid-Winter 5k Dean/Cas Tropefest 2018.
> 
> Inspired by a story suggested [here](http://destieldrabblesdaily.tumblr.com/post/151355039924/everythingisadestielau-your-petrestaurant-story) ([chattyanon](http://chattyanon.tumblr.com), thanks for the prompt!).
> 
> My greatest thanks to [BuckytheDucky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/BuckytheDucky) for editing this!

****

 

**Marty**

Do you have any idea how it feels when you are not allowed to speak while having a lot to say? I’m sure you do. Everyone has such moments. Mine was when we ended up at that police station, dirty, crowded, and full of the most disgusting smells in the world. As the cage locked shut behind us, I felt that I never regretted more being unable to speak. Otherwise, all this would never have happened.

But I'd better start at the beginning.

My name is Marty. I am a smart, obedient, and well-bred golden retriever, two years old.

My human and I live in a house near a nice green lawn with delightfully soft grass. I am walked out twice a day, morning and evening, and although my human sometimes looks tired, I know that he enjoys our time together no less than I do. In return, I don’t complain when he leaves for the day. He has an important job, my human (others call him Sam): he carries packs of paper back and forth.

Overall, I would say that we live a happy, organized, and quiet life.

It had stayed that way until the moment Sam said he had to leave the city for a few days.

I felt the trouble coming right away. Call it a sixth sense or whatever, but when Sam took out his phone and dialed a number, I already knew who he was calling. There was only one Dean in his contact list, and despite them being brothers, I’d never trade one to another. It’s like trading a nice warm dinner to a handful of dry kibble if you know what I mean.

Not that there’s something wrong with Dean, he is a good human like many others, and he cares for Sam. He’s just… Well, he’s the type that never misses the trouble he can get into. I won’t bother you with all the examples, suffice it to say that when he pets me, he starts to sneeze in five seconds sharp. Every time.

He’s only reliable when it comes to food. His plate always smells delicious, and he can take bites as big as my tennis ball and never drop a thing. I believe a human that eats like that cannot be mean.

Next day Dean came to our place.

“Hey, McFly,” he said as he dropped his shapeless bag nearby the doorstep. I barked to remind him that I had been named after Adam Marty, a Civil War hero that had nothing in common with a character of an old movie, but Dean paid no attention. As always. “We’re gonna have a great time, huh?”

I licked his hand to be polite. I wasn’t sure “great” was a correct term for what we were going to have.

The first three days, however, went fine. Dean walked me out on schedule and waited until I was done with my dog business. There was no jogging along the street, though, and I was a little sad about that, but apparently, Dean felt safer to be standing on the porch with a mug in his hand. In the evenings, he fed me and cooked dinner for himself.

“Here, buddy,” he said once, having dropped a piece of his burger for me. “That’s better than salad, right?”

I never tasted salad but had to agree. I couldn’t lie that those mellow bits were amazing. I barked thankfully, and Dean raised his bottle.

I was starting to like him.

But on the fourth day, things took an unexpected turn. Dean spent all day home watching the talking screen, not bothering even to visit the kitchen. I paced back and forth in front of him, but he just smiled at me. “We’re dining out tonight,” he announced, taking out his car keys.

My tail made a nervous twist and froze still. The car keys usually meant that we were going to the vet. I endured these visits in respect of Sam, of course, but never liked them.

Dean noticed my doubts. “Easy, McFly, let’s hang out. It’s just a dinner. I deserve my beer and pool and...and time out.” He paused a little, and I understood him. Like us, humans are social creatures, and sometimes they need someone but themselves to speak to. “And you deserve your…whatever stuff they’ve got for dogs.”

Dean slapped his thigh asking me to follow and took my leash.

“Let’s first agree on something, okay?” he said as he unlocked his car. It was bigger than Sam’s and smelt like Dean (and very vaguely like Sam too). “No drooling, no biting, no scratching the seats. You break any of these, you’ll walk home alone. That clear?”

Sam never told me anything like that. Honestly, he didn’t have to — his car never smelt other than insentient, and the upholstery didn’t look appealing. Now it wasn’t easy, but I climbed into the back seat and made my best “good boy” face.

“Awesome.”

We drove for a while. Finally, Dean pulled over to a small building by the road and stopped.

We came to the entrance together, my leash in Dean’s hand. It felt nice to be walking by his side like an official dog, and I held my head up high not to miss anything.

But as we reached the doors, Dean suddenly halted.

“Shit.”

Dogs cannot read, but I guessed there was something written on these doors that made Dean turn his back on them.

“No dogs,” he said, obviously repeating what he had read. For an awful moment, I thought that Dean was going to leave me in the car — the worst thing ever to happen to any dog — but he was already heading back, pulling me by the leash. “Sorry, buddy, let’s try a different one.”

He drove us to another place, and the whole story repeated. The sign on the eating place doors said dogs weren’t welcome there.

The third place was no better. And the fourth.

I began to suspect a certain pattern behind this. Maybe that was the reason why Sam never took me to eat out — dogs just weren’t supposed to eat anywhere but at home.

I was getting hungry. And it seemed Dean was getting hungry too because he repeatedly roared very much like his car did and muttered something through his teeth. Something I never heard from Sam.

As we drove up to the fifth place, Dean looked back at me and said, “Never give up, McFly. Come on. There has to be our luck somewhere.”

Here, the doors were open. I took it for a good sign and followed Dean to the entrance — just to face a lady in an apron so short that I could barely reach out to smell it. The lady looked at us in turn and frowned.

“I’m sorry, pets are not allowed in here.”

Dean seized my leash. “He’s not a pet,” he said in a flat voice.

“Oh really? Well, who is he then?”

“My friend.”

Despite a clear feeling this was going nowhere, I was flattered to hear that. It’s one thing to consider yourself someone’s friend but having their word for it is quite another story.

But the lady wasn’t convinced.

“I’m happy for you,” she said, “but that doesn’t change anything. You can’t bring a dog in.”

“Are you telling me there’s no place I can enter with him?” Dean snapped, looking very angry. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Unless it’s your service dog, yes. But…” she surveyed Dean again, from head to toe, and gave him a mocking smile, “I don’t think that’s your case. Sorry.”

She stepped back and shut the door in Dean’s face.

At this, we had no choice but to leave. On the way home, Dean stopped at a gas station to buy some frozen food in a crunchy wrapper. It’s my favorite type of packaging, by the way (such a pity that Sam prefers fresh produce!), and yet I decided against chewing on it — out of solidarity with the person who had called me his friend.

That evening, we ate at home, and our kitchen had never experienced a sadder silence. Dean’s expression had an air of defeat and that of stubborn determination they sometimes shared with Sam. Probably, after all, I was wrong to think they were so different. Although with Sam, that looks was always accompanied by a dark suit and a thick paper folder which normally meant he had an important day at work. With Dean, it felt like he was plotting revenge.  

And he actually was.

Next morning, he walked me out and left. He was away for the most of the day, and when he came back, he had a new harness for me and dark glasses on his face.

If I could, I’d have raised my eyebrow on that. He looked very much like that human Sam and I sometimes meet during our morning runs, except Dean wasn’t running. And, more importantly, it was raining outside.

He squatted in front of me and smiled.

“Looks cool, eh? Guess that’ll do.”

He moved his glasses onto his forehead and looked at me expectantly. His eyes were glowing with dangerous fire. I remembered where I had seen that kind of fire before: it was when Dandy, our neighbor’s cocker spaniel had some very special interest in Mona, a fluffy corgi living a block down the street. In the total absence of other humans around, I had no idea of what Dean was up to. I just wagged my tail.

That seemed enough for him. In less than a minute we were back in his car.

This time, he drove us to a new place, not one of those we had visited the day before. To my surprise, he passed it by and parked in a sideway.

“Now… You’ll play a little game for me, Marty, won’t you?” he asked as we got out. My new harness in his hands clanked, and I raised my feet in turn to help Dean put it on. “It’s no big deal. You just uh… behave like a good dog, okay? Just… you know. No dumb barking or peeing on the waiters, that kinda stuff. Okay?”

It sounded a little offensive, but Dean couldn’t know how well golden retrievers could behave. We are ranked fourth in the smartest breeds’ chart, and it’s not without reason. Dean probably couldn’t know that as well, so to provide him an example, without any command, I sat down and looked at him.

Dean looked satisfied. He put on his dark glasses and picked up my leash. “Damned rain… Can’t see a thing. Watch your step, Mart.”

We started walking. As soon as we rounded the corner and found ourselves on the main street, Dean’s pace slowed down the way I’d never seen him walking. I even had to hold back, too, not to overtake him. Probably he really couldn’t see very well.

This eating place was large, its entrance bright-lit. A human standing there greeted us with a friendly smile.

“Welcome to _Angelo’s_ , sir,” he said. “Is that your guide dog?”

Somewhat hesitant, Dean took a moment before he answered. He just kept staring at the other human through his dark glasses and fumbling my leash as if I could help him see better. The other human stared back, waiting.

“Yeah…” Dean mumbled at last, taking his glasses off. “His name’s Marty.”

The man smiled again, this time a little differently. “Oh, Marty. Very well. Will you please follow me, Marty and…”

“I’m Dean.”

“Hello, Dean. Please follow me, gentlemen.”

He took Dean’s arm, and we came in.

I have to admit, from this moment my memories are not very clear. I remember being immersed into a cloud of scents so fascinating that I nearly forgot how to breathe. There was roasted meat, and sauce, and chicken wings, and many other flavors I couldn’t distinguish. Like in a daze, I followed Dean to the table and lay down by his feet, trying to keep my sniffing volume to a reasonable level.

I am not sure what happened next. My whole mind was overwhelmed with smells. Apparently, Dean dropped something and reached out to pick it up before I could help. Then suddenly there were people around us, but they didn’t smell so well, so I wasn’t interested. And then we were brought to this police station.

You’d better interrogate Dean. I’m certain there’s some ridiculous misunderstanding about all that.

No, we don’t plead guilty. We need a lawyer and a telephone call.

Thank you for listening, by the way.

 

**Castiel**

He looked nervous. Yes, probably that was the first thing I noticed about him when we entered the dining hall. Nervous and very…um…attractive. No, the glasses didn’t matter. But I'd prefer not to go on record with my last statement, please. I don’t think this remark is appropriate.

Well, we came in, Dean’s arm in my hand, his dog following us. No, they didn’t look suspicious. Marty, the dog, however, was a little more agitated that one could expect of a guide dog, but it might have been due to my presence. I have to admit I have no experience with the guide dogs and I’m only vaguely aware of their normal behavior.

Considering the guest couldn’t see well enough I took the liberty of giving him the table under the light, in a quiet corner. I introduced myself and read the menu aloud to avoid possible awkwardness.

Dean gave it a thought and ordered a chef’s burger that I had recommended. It seemed to please his taste, although he asked to remove the pickles (I took a note on that to later notify the kitchen). He also asked for “something for his dog”, and that slight unclarity told me their companionship probably hadn’t been lasting.

I took a moment to allow him some more time. It felt a right thing to do, and beyond that, I felt somewhat reluctant to leave. While at the entrance, Dean had taken his glasses off and now he seemed much more comfortable without them. I kept standing by his table and occasionally… our eyes met. His turned out to be of a rare shade of green — or at least so I thought. Quite unexpectedly, I didn’t notice any diseased blur in them. Instead, Dean’s eyes were smart, well-focused, and very bright. I would say they looked like healthy. And entirely breathtaking. And fascinating enough to make my own vision momentarily lose its sharpness.  

Embarrassed, I looked away. It was highly disrespectful to be staring at the guest in such a manner, and my manager had already administered me a reproof for another such instance. Under no circumstances would I let myself go on if it was someone else. But with Dean, it felt strangely normal — as if we had known each other for years. It felt like seeing someone you know so close that you don’t need words to speak.

Or ears to hear.

Or eyes to see.

[Long pause]

Perhaps, it was something in Dean’s eyes that made me do what I did. Or rather, what I _didn’t_ do.

There was guilt that reddened his cheekbones. There was uneasiness that showed as he shuffled in his chair, reaching out to his pockets. There was sudden despair as his bunch of keys fell on the floor. There was a terror as we head-butted each other trying to pick it up. And then, there was nothing but surrender to disclosure.

The keys he dropped had a branded keychain pendant. It was a shiny, golden-yellowish Chevrolet logo.

“Are you driving?” I asked him in a low voice.

Dean nodded. His expression was ashamed, his head bent down. He clearly didn’t dare even look up.

“S-sorry…” he whispered. “I…”

I never found out what he was about to say. The restaurant staff noticed us staring at each other (and obviously seeing perfectly well), and called for Mr. Adler.

I had been only working at _Angelo’s_ for a few weeks, but I knew Mr. Adler was not a person to mess with. He is perceptive like a licensed detective and implacable like a Themis statue. Sometimes I think he knows about a crime even before it is committed. As he came up and understood what had happened, he made a disgusted expression and smiled one of his smiles.

“You’ve come to the wrong door for a Halloween party,” he said, speaking to Dean. “I’m calling the police.” Then he turned to me and went on, “We won’t tolerate fraud here. You, Castiel, should have reported him. Why didn’t you do that?”

Surprisingly, it was Marty-the-dog who saved me from answering that question. He raised his head, about as golden as a Chevrolet logo, and barked.

Mr. Adler frowned and took out his phone. I noticed that Dean’s hand slid down and stopped between his dog’s ears.

Apparently, he guessed a few things I could have said.

[Pause]

Yes, I understand my violation. I’m ready to take any punishment and I surrender to justice.

But starting over, I’d do the same.

 

**Police officer**

Yes, sir, it was me who made an arrest. I had a call to check on _Angelo’s_ , 2150 Eden Drive, at 6.49. I arrived on site at 7.03 and reported to the duty officer as required by procedure.

The suspects made a few confusing statements making it impossible to determine the truth of the matter. I decided to arrest them until the case was clarified.

Yes, sir, all of them. That’s right, sir, the three including the dog. It’s not my job to seek out the guilty; my job is to deliver suspects to the police station. I’m afraid I have nothing more to say about the case.

Sorry, I have another call on the radio.

 

**Dean**

Look, it wasn’t… intentional, okay? I didn’t mean to offend or something. I just wanted my dinner. Yeah, with Marty. It was our last night, and he behaved like the world's perfect dog ever born, and I wanted to celebrate. Like, to do something nice for him.

No, I didn’t know what the law said about that. I mean…I saw the signs sure thing, but I had no idea it’s such a crime to take along a dog. And it’s not just _a_ dog, right? It’s _the_ dog. It’s _my brother’s_ dog. It’s the _family_ dog, that’s the point. Had I left him alone, how would I dare look him in his eye?

But okay, I’m sorry… I mean it. That was a dumb thing to do. And honestly, I respect the real guide dogs and their owners and I swear I wouldn’t even approach that place if there were any disabled people. But it was half empty and I was like, why don’t we try getting a meal over there?

Yeah…whatever happened, happened. And you know what? I regretted that idea as soon as we came in. It didn’t feel like a joke anymore. It felt creepy and shameful as hell. I was about to turn back, but then Cas grabbed my arm, and it was too late.

I mean — Castiel, the maitre d’. And speaking of… you know what? I think the house should share responsibility. I don’t know if it’s their hiring policy or what, but when a guy so damn hot meets you at the entrance, there’s no way you can help it. You kinda get screwed up no matter what.

And yeah…I screwed up.

But it’s only me, okay? All of that is my fault. Cas has nothing to do with it. He’s not the one who started that crap and he won’t be the one to take the charges. He’s… he’s the best guy I ever met, and you just can’t keep him here. You can’t do that. He did nothing wrong.

So here’s the deal. You let him go — we talk. Yeah, in that exact order.

What you mean — or what? Okay, _or_ I’ll call my brother and you’ll talk to him. And you know what happens next? He’ll sue you. He’s gonna sue you just like that. Are you ready to lose your jobs, guys?

 

**Sam**

I came next morning — the best I could do given that I had been five hundred miles away. To say I was mad would be an understatement.

Thank God someone took care of Marty over that crazy night — walked him out and even fed. Otherwise, Dean wouldn’t come off so cheap.

Someday, Dean’s dumb jokes will get him into trouble. I mean, real trouble, not this stupid one-night imprisonment, but a much worse one. If he goes on like that… I don’t know.

But maybe he won’t, after all.

I was expecting to see him banging on the cell’s walls, swearing and cursing the guards. That would be his usual thing to do, I’d say, so I was sort of… prepared. But I saw nothing like that.

These two idiots were sitting in their cell like total lovebirds. On the same bench. Together. Holding hands. No idea how that was even possible — technically, the suspects on the same case should get separated. I don’t want to think what Dean did to arrange that.

He looked like he’d won a jackpot. He really did, and the other guy seemed pretty much the same as he eyed my brother with that look… There was no mistaking that look.

And Marty — my Marty! — was lying by their feet, his mouth wide with the biggest dog grin he ever made. Meet Dean Winchester, the pet sitting champion.

Well, whatever. In half an hour they were released, all charges dropped.

Dean was lucky twice. Firstly, it didn’t happen in California. If it did, he’d get a thousand-dollar fine and six months in jail. They’re quite strict about fake service dogs over there and I can see why.

And secondly… the funniest thing about all that was that _Angelo’s_ was a pet-friendly place. They _do_ allow the dogs in — like, officially. None of that circus was necessary, but Dean didn’t even bother to check before entering.

Not that I doubt why. It’s just Dean as he is.

By the way, he said he’d stay with us over for a while. And something tells me it’s gonna be a great while as he secretly printed out a Google maps route down to _Angelo’s_ and asked if Marty had any walking distance limits. I said he didn’t. Golden retrievers are ideal companions for long hikes, provided that they have enough freedom.

I’m relieved to think that there’ll be at least one sane guy in that company.


End file.
